The first sighting happened on a quiet night in the small town of Eldridge Hollow. The sky had been clear, the stars twinkling like distant eyes watching from above. A group of teenagers, bored and curious, decided to take a walk through the old forest just beyond the edge of town. They claimed they saw a glowing object hovering above the treetops, moving silently, without sound. It was not a plane, not a drone, and certainly not any known aircraft. When they returned, their stories were met with skepticism, but the strange glow in their eyes suggested something real had happened. Weeks passed, and the sightings became more frequent. At first, they were isolated—just one or two people reporting a strange light in the sky. Then, it spread. People began to notice patterns: the lights appeared most often during the full moon, always at the same time, just after sunset. Some claimed the lights would pulse, as if breathing. Others swore they heard whispers, soft and unintelligible, carried by the wind. The townspeople grew uneasy. Children stopped playing outside after dark. Dogs howled for no reason. The local church even held a special service, though none could explain why. But the most unsettling part was the way the lights seemed to follow them. If you walked through the woods, they would appear above you. If you looked up from your porch, they would be there, watching. One evening, a woman named Clara found herself standing alone on the hill overlooking the town. She had always been a skeptic, but that night, she felt drawn to the sky. The air was thick with humidity, and the scent of pine mingled with something else—something metallic, like ozone. As she stood there, the light appeared again, brighter than before. It hovered, then slowly descended, landing just beyond the treeline. Clara approached cautiously, her heart pounding. The object was unlike anything she had ever seen—a smooth, black sphere, slightly larger than a car, with no visible seams or windows. It pulsed with a faint blue light, casting long shadows on the ground. She reached out, hesitant, but before her fingers could touch, the light flared and vanished. In its place, a single white feather lay on the grass, untouched by wind or footstep. She picked it up, feeling a chill run down her spine. That night, she dreamt of flying birds, their wings made of glass, circling a city of silver spires. When she woke, the feather was gone, but the memory of the dream remained, vivid and haunting. Word of the feather spread quickly. Some said it was a sign, others a curse. A few claimed it was proof of something greater, something ancient. The town’s historian, a man named Elias, began researching old folklore, searching for any mention of such creatures or beings. He found nothing, only fragmented tales of "sky spirits" and "watchers from beyond." None of them matched what was happening now. Then, the disappearances started. First, a farmer who had been seen near the forest late at night. Then a young boy who had wandered off during a storm. No bodies were found, no signs of struggle. Just empty fields and silent woods. The police searched tirelessly, but the answers eluded them. One night, a group of locals gathered at the town square, whispering among themselves. They spoke of the lights, the feathers, the missing people. A child asked if they were being watched. No one answered. The wind blew, carrying with it the faintest sound—like a hum, or a song, or something in between. Elias, now obsessed with the mystery, spent his nights in the library, poring over old manuscripts and forgotten journals. He found a passage written in a language he couldn’t read, but the symbols were familiar. They resembled the patterns of the lights. One night, he fell asleep at his desk, and when he woke, the pages were covered in strange markings—words he had never written, yet they made sense to him. He tried to ignore it, but the dreams came more often. He saw the same silver city, the same glass-winged birds. And in the center of it all, a figure, tall and silent, watching him through the haze of his mind. The last sighting was the most bizarre. A man driving home from work noticed a light following his car, not above the road, but inside his headlights. It moved with him, never overtaking, never falling behind. When he pulled into his driveway, the light vanished. His wife, who had been waiting, asked what was wrong. He didn’t answer. He just stared at the empty road, his hands trembling. Now, the town is quiet again, but the silence is heavy. Some say the lights are gone, others say they’re still watching. No one knows for sure. But every full moon, when the sky is clear, the wind carries a whisper—not of fear, but of something older, something waiting. And somewhere, in the depths of the forest, a single feather lies undisturbed, as if waiting for someone to find it.